


epiphany

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters: Gold Rush!AU [69]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Almost Crack, Brothers, Cousins, F/M, Fingon is a pure innocent boy with zero taste in women (yet), Gen, Humor, happier times, set approximately 5 mos pre-ceili
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18651109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Fingon develops his first crush. His cousins are mostly--concerned.





	epiphany

“I am sorry I could not be at dinner tonight,” Maedhros says, before he has even laid aside his caped coat and gold-headed cane.

“I’m sure Grandfather was grateful for your company with the Council,” Maglor replies, rather languidly, and he does not lift his head from his sheet music. 

“Did I miss anything very important?”

“At Fingolfin’s?” Sometimes Maglor is as dry as their father. “No. Well—except that Fingon is dying.”

Maedhros freezes with one hand still ungloved. 

“Fingon is not dying,” Finrod proclaims, sitting up from where he was draped, looking rather dead himself, over the back of Feanor’s finest moire-covered sofa. His face is very flushed.

Maedhros looks more relieved at the news than shocked at the sudden appearance of his cousin.

“Oh...” Maglor glances at them both, frowning. “Of course. I meant _metaphorically_.”

“Well, fuck,” Maedhros snaps, throwing both gloves at Maglor’s head. The kitchen-maid chooses that moment to enter with tea, and she colors rosily.

“I beg your pardon, Sallie,” Maedhros murmurs, smooth as silk. Her blush only deepens.

Finrod observes mildly, when she goes out again, “I do hope, cousin, that you’re begging no more than her pardon.”

“Don’t be vile,” Maglor sniffs, while Maedhros laughs. “Good God, Finrod. Why are you still _here_?”

“I’m partial to your sofas.” Finrod taps his cheeks with long, graceful fingers. His usually sleek hair is tousled like fine golden straw. “There. I’ve done enough.” For the benefit of Maedhros, he adds, “I’m trying a new experiment—letting blood rush to the head for intermittent intervals of about five minutes apiece. It’s supposed to cleanse the mind.”

“Wine will make your blood rush, and cleanse your mind twice over,” Maedhros counters. “At least I’ve found it so.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Finrod grins. “I just feel dizzy, to be honest.”

“Mm. Wine does that too.” Maedhros slips out of his coat, leaving only his snug waistcoat and billowing shirtsleeves, and sits down beside his fair-haired cousin. “Now, Mags. Buck up—what’s the matter with Fingon?”

“Tut, tut,” Finrod interjects, before Maglor can answer. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Now he has to.” Maedhros can be stubborn when he wants to be.

“Oh, _hell_.” Maglor sighs dramatically. “Fingon’s lovesick, that’s all.”                                                                                                                

“And he didn’t...”

“Tell you? No—and consider yourself lucky. There’s no _poetry_ in it, Maitimo. Neither verse nor couplet.”

“There is a _little_ poetry,” Finrod muses, “In every kind of love.”

Maglor ignores him. “You weren’t there, so _I_ was obliged to listen over our uncle’s searing bitter coffee. Egads!”

“No Irish steeping for our poor lover of teas.” Finrod’s voice is warm with affection. “Maedhros, Fingon didn’t tell you because he’s afraid of what you will think. That’s all.”

“Afraid?” Maedhros blinks. “Of me?”

“Hardly, cousin. But you know Fin. Did he tell you he was destined for the holy cloth a hundred years ago or something of that ilk?”

Maedhros arches a brow in the dawn of realization. “Yes, actually. Exactly that.”

Finrod snaps his fingers; Maglor rolls his eyes. “Well, there you have it,” Finrod says. “He thinks he’s broken some eternal vow—you know the Fingolfians and their word.”

Maedhros does, and he smiles. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

“Father’s going to speak to Dr. Curunir.” Fingon seems on the verge of skipping down the sidewalk, before remembering with each new step that he must maintain a semblance of dignity. The result is a rather stilted gait.

Maedhros stifles a laugh. “Do you think he shall listen?”

“Oh, everyone listens to Father,” Fingon says, gleeful. “I mean—” He stops rather awkwardly, and Maedhros waves a hand.

“I’m sure it is a settled thing, even now.” They are nearly at their favorite tearoom—well, Maglor’s favorite tearoom, which has become something of a cousinly stamping ground. “Fingon, I—”

“What is it?” Fingon stares at him, instantly concerned. “Are you well?”

It stings Maedhros a bit, that Fingon knows enough to ask that, but he quickly shakes his head. “I’m perfectly sound. No doubt you can see that just from looking at me.” He preens a little, for effect, and then is serious again. “No, I wanted ask if _you_ were well—if there was something troubling your mind. You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

Fingon, in answer, turns an alarming shade of scarlet.

“Oh, dear,” Maedhros says. “Never mind. You needn’t—”

“I _knew_ Maglor would tell you.” Fingon shuffles his feet like a small boy. “I should have been man enough to, but I just—it’s all a joy to _me_ , except when I remember what a betrayal it is to God. And to _you_ , because I confided in you, and so—”

“Fingon, you didn’t make a _vow_. You were _twelve_.”

“Saint Tarcisius—”

“I’ll make a vow here and now to pull my own ears off if I hear another mention of Saint Tarcisius.”

Fingon cracks a smirk. “Alright. So you don’t think—”

“No, of course not!” Maedhros slings an arm around his shoulder so that they can rollick like drunken sailors. “Tell me all about her.”

 

“She’s dull.”

“Fingon told you that?”

“No, _I_ met her and discovered that.” Maedhros drags his hand over his face. “Finrod, don’t taunt me.”

“I never taunt,” Finrod says kindly, placing a plate of biscuits at Maedhros’s elbow. “You met her at a dance?”

“It was damnably difficult, too. I couldn’t dance with her, lest she think I take an interest, but I had to _talk_ with her—and I don’t understand it. I truly don’t.”

“What about her—”

“So buttoned up I couldn’t get a good look. But Fingon doesn’t care about that.”

“I wasn’t asking about _that_ ,” Finrod chides. “But what of her accomplishments and pursuits? Is she musical?”

“She is pretty but unremarkable, doesn’t sing, doesn’t dance well, surrounded by friends as insipid is she is…what _can_ he see in her?”

“Oh, you know Fingon,” Maglor says, stalking into the room with his dressing gown draped over his shoulders. “He probably saw her in church, and light beamed through the stained glass and fell across her hair.” He stops, fingers to lips, as if inspired.

“ _That_ is going in a poem,” Finrod whispers.

“Jesus,” Maedhros groans, and when horrified gasps greet him, he adds, “…have mercy on us.”

 

“Her name is Hester?”

Fingon nods.

Maedhros has played many a part. He can play this one. “And when did you first… know?”

“I saw her at Mass,” Fingon says wistfully. “And you won’t believe it, Maitimo, but a ray of sunlight came through the glass—”


End file.
